Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  It should have been hilarious, but Elliot saw no humor in the matter. With the most determined stride he could muster, Elliot approached Gus, one hand elevated, palm outward. “Look, Weyden, be reasonable. I just want to talk ab—oof!”

  Gus’s first punch caught him squarely beneath the chin, snapping his head back and sending his hat tumbling into the dirt. Elliot staggered backward, catching himself just as Winthrop reached the fray.

  The blow induced a stir of anticipation among the crowd as they realized the mill was in earnest. Shouts and cajoles mingled with hastily murmured wagers as the emotionally charged mob surrounded and sized up the two combatants. “Two quid on the big nob,” Elliot heard a rough, uncultivated voice rasp from the edge of the growing throng.

  A bitter, determined smile curved Gus’s mouth as he waved Elliot toward him with one hand. “Come on, Rannoch,” he taunted softly. “I don’t give a bloody damn how big you are.”

  “I just want to talk, Gus. Not fight,” said Elliot softly, bending down to scoop up his dusty hat. Angry jeers broke from the crowd just as his fingers touched the brim, and almost simultaneously, Gus’s boot connected with his ribcage, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

  The crowd roared.

  “Three-to-two odds!” shouted an eager voice from the back of the mob as Elliot hefted himself ungracefully from the ground.

  “In whose favor?” quizzed Sir Hugh avariciously. Elliot’s head pivoted backward in amazement just as Gus’s next punch caught him evenly in the stomach, sending him reeling ignobly backward again.

  “The youngster, I s’pect,” came the stunned, uncertain response.

  Elliot burned with righteous indignation. Damn it all, Gus was no more inclined to listen than Evangeline had been, and now his own uncle was taking odds on his fight. Lifting his chin to face his accuser, Elliot saw Gus’s muscles bunch for the next blow and, summoning all his strength, effectively threw one arm high to block the punch, catching Gus squarely in the gut with the opposite fist.

  “Nah,” hedged the gamester again as Gus exhaled in a whoosh and staggered backward. “Odds on the big gent, I reckon.”

  Gus quickly regained his balance and wound up for the next punch. Tired of treading the high moral ground, Elliot stepped back, ripped off his coat, and hurled it at Hugh’s face. Like a couple of enraged roosters, the pugilists began to circle each other, as if pulled by centrifugal force.

  “Don’t make me do this, Weyden,” cautioned Elliot softly. “I may be coming off a two-day drunk, but I’m nearly twice your size.”

  “Aye, Elliot, brute strength?” jeered Gus. “Is that the way of it? Is that how you forced yourself on Ev—”

  “Shut up, you fool!” roared Elliot, diving into the younger man.

  He took Gus down with a forceful blow, sending them both tumbling to the dirt yard in a whirlwind of dust. Around them, the crowd skittered back from the fray as Elliot pinned him hard against the ground and sprawled on top.

  Gus tried to spit upward into Elliot’s face. “Evie loved you, you unprincipled libertine!”

  Elliot leaned deeper, forcing his opponent’s shoulders into the dirt. “Damn you, watch your tongue!” he whispered, this time against Gus’s ear. “Now, I understand you’re angry, and mayhap you’ve every right, but this is neither the time nor the place to mention the names of—”

  Suddenly, Gus’s knee came up out of nowhere to catch Elliot almost square in the crotch. Elliot roared in pain, rolled to one side, then lay there panting as Gus scrambled to his feet.

  “Get up, you son of a bitch,” snarled Gus, waving him up invitingly. The knuckles of his hand were already dark and swollen.

  “Oh, hell!” rasped Elliot. “Pound me to flinders, then, Weyden, if it’ll make you feel any better.” He spit out a mouthful of dust and launched himself at Gus again. In a matter of seconds, they were rolling through the tavern yard like a pair of snarling mongrels, first Elliot on top, then Gus. Fists and elbows flew as the world seemed to tumble about Elliot, pulling him into a whirling vortex of dizziness and nausea.

  Both men were panting and covered in grime. At last, Elliot succeeded in getting the upper hand, pinning Gus firmly to the ground once more, and fighting to subdue his own flip-flopping stomach. Elliot’s hair hung limply over one eye, partially obscuring his view of his opponent outstretched beneath him. Just then, Gus shifted, and Elliot looked down to see that the younger man’s nose streamed with blood. It gushed down his face and throat, coloring Gus’s once-white linen with a bright red stain.

  The vision was just too much.

  Elliot was undone, the sight overcoming his suddenly delicate sensibilities. With a groan of protest, he rolled off Gus and crawled onto his knees, clutching at his belly just as the glass of ale rebelled and came up ignominiously into the dirt of the tavern yard.

  Suddenly, Gus, too, was on his knees, clutching his heaving stomach. But he, Elliot saw with outrage, was laughing. Laughing! A fair mill amongst friends was one thing, but dash it all, laughing at another fellow’s hangover was not at all the thing. And a knee in the ballocks was just damned dirty fighting.

  Instinctively, the crowd drew back. A couple of fellows scuffled off toward the taproom as the odds-makers scratched their heads. It was apparent to all that the row was over, at least for the nonce.

  “Drat you, Weyden,” Elliot grunted, staggering uncertainly to his feet, then spitting violently into the yard. He reached down and yanked Gus up with newfound strength, then dragged the young man in the general direction of the stables. “You and I are going to settle a few things, my friend.” He glowered back over his shoulder at Crane and Sir Hugh and their coterie of spectators. “Alone!” he bellowed, and the crowd shrank back as if burnt.

  In the shade of the stables, Elliot shoved Gus down into a pile of hay and collapsed wearily beside him. Much of the younger man’s rage appeared to have been dissipated in the dirt. His bloodlust now reduced to a narrow-eyed scowl, Gus began mopping at his nose.

  With a sigh of relief, Elliot dragged a filthy shirtsleeve across his brow and heaved a ragged breath. “Look here, Weyden,” he slowly began. “I know this looks bad, but you have got to help me. Just listen to my side of the story …”

  *

  Evangeline had been in the front hall when Gus limped up the steps earlier that evening, Crane and Theo following in his wake. Now the erstwhile pugilist sat slumped in an ancient kitchen chair, his booted legs spread wide, his head tilted back against the topmost chair rung.

  “Aye, miss! They do say boys will be boys,” quoted Mrs. Penworthy as she cheerfully lifted a now-tepid compress from Gus’s bloated face. Beneath it, his nose was engorged to twice its size, and one bruised eye was already swollen shut. Bracing her plump hands upon her knees, the housekeeper squatted down and peered appraisingly up into Gus’s nostrils. “But I s’pect ’tis broken, more’s the pity. And we’ll be needin’ a beefsteak for that right eye.”

  From a pot on the kitchen stove, the cook, Mrs. Crane, sniffed pitifully, then lifted another steaming cloth from a cast-iron pot containing a malodorous boiling concoction. Using tongs, she plopped it onto a porcelain tray and sighed morosely.

  “Mr. Roberts—the marquis of Rannoch—is a grown man, Mrs. Penworthy,” snapped Evangeline. “As is Gus, much as he likes to ignore that fact.” She picked up the cloth by one corner, waited a moment as it cooled, then resolutely folded it and applied it to the worst of Gus’s bruises.

  Gus scowled beneath the steaming compress and tried to lift his head from the rung of the ladderback chair. “I’b well aware of my owd age, Evie,” he groused nasally. “And I don’d think you’re being fair to Elliod aboud this. Hear me oud, thad’s all I ask.”

  “Fair? Fair?” Evangeline screeched. “You’ll bloody well get fair, Gus Weyden, when your mama returns home and sees that you have been brawling in a tavern yard like common riffraff! And with an amoral reprobate like him, no less. I vow I cannot credit it! Have you no notion of
propriety?”

  “Eh?” interjected Mrs. Penworthy. “P’raps ’e likes a good mill well as the next ’un—but that nice Mr. Roberts, a reprobate? Don’t seem quite the right word somehow.”

  From the steaming kitchen pot, Mrs. Crane gave a sharp, tragic sigh. “ ’Tis Crane’s fault, anyways,” she moaned, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Sweet piety! What come over ’im, I arst you? Carryin’ off them boys to a boxing brawl. And all the way to Tottenham! Lucky t’weren’t worse.”

  “Oh, devil fly away wid Crane!” grumbled Gus, tossing the compress aside and staggering up from the chair. “I think I’b ode enough to know whad I’m aboud! And Elliod’s nod a reprobade.”

  “You think not?” whispered Evangeline coldly, leaning forward to lock her gaze with his. “Then just what would you call a man who debauches, then abandons, innocent young ladies? A man who flaunts his mistresses, swindles naïve young men out of their inheritances like some conniving Captain Sharp, and engages in bloodthirsty duels for the casual entertainment of his friends?” Evangeline gave a sharp yank on Gus’s collar.

  “Lies!” retorted Gus nasally. “Bloody insulds! Who the devil said such things?”

  “Lady Trent,” hissed Evangeline, setting her hands stubbornly upon her hips. “And now that I think of it, calling that man a reprobate is a bloody insult—to the expression, not the man!”

  Before Gus could respond any further to Evangeline’s choleric invective, Frederica burst into the kitchen, came to a skidding halt just inside the threshold, and gave a horrified squeak. “Is it true?” she asked in a stricken voice, staring up at Gus’s harrowing visage. Her face drew taut in an expression of terrified innocence, and she burst into tears. “Is it true what Theo says? That you and Mr. Roberts had a fight?” she sobbed. “That you hit each other?”

  “Damnation,” cursed Evangeline, pitching the next compress across the kitchen and whirling about in a rush of silk. She stalked toward the door. “That’s it! That is the last tear to be shed at Chatham over that dissolute scoundrel! It is time I made it clear to him that he’s not to come near any member of this household.” She clambered up the ancient kitchen steps as Mrs. Crane and Frederica wailed miserably in her wake.

  Elliot shouted out the address Gus had given him, and the elegant carriage lurched off toward the river to travel into Westminster. Tossing his hat onto the opposite seat, Elliot ran his hand down his face as if wiping away an unpleasant vision. Yesterday had indeed been a nightmare. The sight of Gus’s bloodied shirt had truly sickened him, and the knowledge that, fully sober, he could have seriously injured the boy had left Elliot badly shaken. He had not, however, been sober and consequently had been very nearly bested by a lad almost half his weight and age. Somehow, despite the ribbing he had taken from Hugh and Winthrop, the fight’s outcome seemed meaningless. It was still his heart, not his pride, that ached so unremittingly.

  It had not helped matters much that afterward Gus had stood, cool and resolute, in the midst of the musty tavern stables as Elliot had literally begged his forgiveness. Dredging up every ounce of humility he could find, Elliot had tried to explain his honorable intentions and convince Gus of his unlikely tale. Elliot’s utter humiliation had been such that he had sworn his love for Evangeline and pleaded with Gus for his help. Yet in the end, all Gus could do was look at Elliot sympathetically, clamp one filthy arm about his shoulders, and suggest that he call upon Peter Weyden.

  Things had not improved on the way home. It was only then that Winthrop had broken the news about Antoinette. Admittedly, the necklace had been an ugly touch. Antoinette had deserved better. Elliot shivered despite the warmth of the day. Try as he might, his former mistress’s visage haunted him, her pale, stark beauty contorted into a horrible death mask. Poor, poor girl. She had been greedy and desperate, yes, but not inherently wicked. Elliot was very much afraid the same could not be said of him.

  Through the window, Elliot watched the passing scenery along Haymarket with cold indifference and wondered what his life was coming to. Down Jermyn Street, he could see throngs of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen darting in and out of carriages and shops, busying themselves with their final shopping of the season. Within a matter of weeks, much of polite society would remove to their country estates or head for the midlands in anticipation of hunting season.

  Elliot turned from the window to stare blindly into the shadows of his carriage. He did not care about shopping or hunting, and he certainly did not care about the season’s end. His carriage moved on through the swarming streets until at last they reached Peter Weyden’s address. Set on a quiet lane just a few yards south of Great Marlboro, the four-story building was elegant and immaculately kept. A simple brass plaque identified the business.

  Weeks ago, much to Elliot’s relief, Gerald Wilson’s investigation of Weyden had indicated that Evangeline’s guardian was an honest man who could be depended upon to see to his ward’s best interests. Elliot could only hope that Weyden would agree that those best interests ought now to be extended to include marriage. It was a long shot at best, but Elliot was a desperate man.

  Elliot hurtled impatiently from the carriage without waiting for his footman to put down the steps. He leapt up the six wide stone stairs, and, almost immediately, the door swung inward and a powdered footman bade Elliot enter, graciously took his card, then disappeared up a wide staircase which circled the vaulted central hall. The room was not large, but it was tastefully decorated with landscapes and seascapes which had been strategically placed to draw the eye through the room. For a few moments, Elliot paced anxiously, alternately feigning interest in the paintings and then flicking open his watch, until the footman returned and asked Elliot to follow him upstairs.

  Peter Weyden was a dapper gentleman of perhaps sixty years, with a face that was at once purposeful and pleasant. His immaculately cut hair was a brilliant shade of silver, as were his eyes and his spectacles. A coat of rich, russet superfine covered his elegant gray vest, from which a long watch chain looped down and across his ample belly. He looked, on the whole, like a cross between an ancient, sharp-eyed owl and a prosperous Zürich banker and seemed possessed of all the meticulousness and precision the latter might imply.

  Four soaring Palladian windows cast a soft light across his imposing office-cum-sitting room, which was expensively furnished yet somehow spartan. At one end sat a broad mahogany desk, devoid of clutter save a stack of tooled-leather ledgers and a modern steel writing pen. As the footman ushered Elliot inside, Weyden rose from his chair in the sitting area opposite the desk and made a polite, precise bow. Seeming completely unfazed by the unexpected appearance of a marquis in his study, he bade Elliot to be seated, then offered a glass of sherry.

  Elliot declined the drink. “Mr. Weyden,” he began, folding himself into one of his host’s small chairs, “since we have not the pleasure of an introduction, I am certain that you wonder what brings me here today.”

  From across his sparkling spectacles, Peter Weyden peered sharply at him. “On the contrary, Lord Rannoch. I strongly suspect that I know the reason for your call, having received by yesterday’s post a rambling, penitent mea culpa from my sister-in-law, whom I daresay fears the worst.” Weyden spoke in precise but heavily accented English and finished with a stiff, caustic smile. It was his only outward sign of emotion.

  Elliot felt his brows rise involuntarily, then fought back the innate arrogance. Such an emotion had no place here. He was fully at fault and owed this man an apology. “It would seem, then,” he commented softly, “that Mrs. Weyden has kindly saved me the humiliation of relaying the unfortunate details of my, ah, relationship with your ward.”

  Weyden simply shrugged and rose from his chair to take up a decanter of sherry. Elliot shook his head, and Weyden poured himself a glass. Drink in hand, the portly man strolled to one of the deep windows and stared out into the haze of what was still an unusually bright London day. When he spoke, his tone held a distinct edge of finality, and Elliot
felt as though he were being effectively dismissed by a weary schoolmaster.

  “Thank you for being honorable enough to come here today, my lord, but I think we need prolong neither your discomfort nor this visit.” Weyden turned from the window to face him. “If indeed there has been, shall we say, an inappropriate degree of familiarity between the two of you, then I am well aware that many of your rank would not have troubled themselves to call upon me under such circumstances. Regrettably, Evangeline bears much of the burden, and very little of the benefit, of a daughter born into a noble family.”

  Uncomfortable with the calm resolve in Weyden’s voice, Elliot rose and joined him at the window. “What is it, precisely, that you are saying, Weyden? Does this have anything to do with Etienne LeNotre?”

  Weyden smiled wryly. “No, no, my lord. I merely suggested that Etienne shelter Michael and Evangeline in Soissons until Winnie could charter a schooner to transport their belongings to Ghent. Though he was astute enough to have some suspicion of your … interest in Evangeline, he hardly shares it. Indeed, he has trouble enough without the complications of an affaire. As do you, my lord, if the talk about town is to be believed.”

  The rumors about Antoinette’s death had spread quickly, Elliot realized, choosing to ignore the subtle reminder. “Yet you must be aware that I have compromised your ward. Rather badly, I am afraid. Certainly, her grandmother must think so, and since Miss Stone is a lady of quality, I feel compelled to do the proper thing. However, she is inexperienced and does not fully comprehend the implications of what—what has occurred.”

  The elderly man turned to face him squarely. “On the contrary, my lord. It is you who do not understand.” Weyden’s words held no hint of anger. “We are not of this culture. We do not live and die by your English rules of conduct.”

  “Then you countenance her behavior?”

  Weyden shook his head emphatically. “By no means, my lord. Nor do I condone yours. I shall, of course, speak sharply to Evangeline. However, she is not foolish by nature, and I am no longer her guardian. She is of age.”